


Leaving a Mark

by Mordhena



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Bloodplay, Bottom Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Dominance, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Painplay, Submission, Submissive Dean Winchester, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 14:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10743978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordhena/pseuds/Mordhena
Summary: A coda piece to S12 E18Sam decides to show Dean who he belongs to.Please be advised that there is knife play and blood play in this story and a mild trigger warning for self-harming behaviour. there is no self-harm depicted but it is mentioned. Please be safe and don't read if this could trigger you.TheTHENpart of this chapter is a transcript of the ending scene of the above referenced episode and not my original work. No copyright infringement is intended.





	Leaving a Mark

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you still patiently waiting for me to continue Something About Mary II I have not forgotten the story, or my loyal readers. I have been busy packing up to move after being asked quite unexpectedly to leave my share house. I had to find a place and move all in the space of one month. I'm moving this weekend, and once I get settled, I hope to be back to updating SAMII very soon!
> 
> In the meantime there's this...  
> This kind of story tends to come to me when I am stressed.

#  **THEN**

 

Dean sets a beer in front of Sam and sits opposite him at the table. "What do you think our legacy will be? You know? When we're gone, do you think anyone will remember us?"

Sam considers for a moment and then shakes his head. "No."

"Oh. That's nice."

"I mean, guys like us? We're not exactly the kind of people they write about in history books. But the people we saved. They're our legacy. They'll remember us." He pauses. "Then I guess, we'll eventually fade away, too. And that’s fine, because we left the world better than we found it, y’know?"

Dean nods and looks around the bunker for a moment. “I wonder what will happen to this place, after we’re gone? You think some hunter will move in, keep fighting the fight?”

“I hope so.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Dean reaches into his pocket, takes out a switchblade knife and flicks it open. He starts to scratch at the table top.

“What’re you doing?”

“Leaving our mark.” He carves his initials into the table.

Watching him, Sam smiles as memories of carving their initials into the parcel shelf of the Impala play though his mind. They’d been kids. Sam thinks maybe he was four years old. He takes the knife when Dean slides it across the table, adds his own “SW” to the etching.

#  **NOW**

**Later the same night**

Sam rummages through a bag in the bottom of his closet, muttering to himself as he digs deeper. “It’s here, I know it is!” He grunts with satisfaction when his fingers close around the item he seeks. He pulls a rolled length of black nylon rope from the bag and tucks it under his arm while he gathers a couple of other items, then he goes in search of his brother.

Dean is not hard to find. He’s barely moved from the library since they got home. He’s sitting at the table, leafing through a Busty Asian Beauties magazine. There’s a beer and a fifth of whiskey at his elbow, but Sam can see that Dean hasn’t been drinking to excess. He watches his brother for a moment while he unravels the rope and forms a lariat. He approaches Dean soft footed for all his size. His brother doesn’t suspect a thing until Sam widens the loop and drops it over Dean’s head and shoulders, pulling it tight. The magazine falls from Dean’s hands and skitters to the floor.

“What the fuck!” Dean lunges forward, the instinctual duck coming too late to stop his arms being pinned at his sides. He struggles for a moment then turns to look over his shoulder, scowling when he sees Sam. “What, you been watching too many episodes of Justified, Raylan?”

Sam chuckles. “Raylan Givens would have shot you. He doesn’t use a rope.”

“The fact you even know that, proves my point. What is this?” He looks down at the rope. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Right now? It looks to me like I’m tying you up, Dean.” Sam reels the rope in a little, passing it behind Dean’s back as he speaks. “Hands.”

“Hands, my ass!” Dean tugs against the rope and Sam draws it tighter, just enough to show he means business.

“Hands, Dean. Behind your back.”

“Uh, Babe, are you…”

Sam lets out an impatient breath, grabs Dean’s right hand, and twists it up his back applying enough pressure to stretch the muscles. “We _can_ do this the hard way if you want. Or, you can trust me, and do as I say. Do you trust me?”

Dean relaxes in his grip. He nods. “Always.” He slips his left hand behind his back and Sam immediately releases the pressure, quickly wrapping a few coils of rope around Dean’s wrists and tying it off. He checks that the knot is secure but won’t impinge on nerves or circulation.

Sam leans in close, and speaks low, next to Dean’s ear. “You may call me Sam, or Sir. I’m _not_ your Babe, tonight.”

Dean nods. “Sam.”

“Good boy.” Sam secures the trailing end of the rope to the chair, but leaves generous slack. “Stand up.” He watches as Dean stands. “Boots off.”

While his brother awkwardly toes off his hunting boots, Sam lays out the other items he’s brought on the table. Dean’s switch blade knife, a pad of gauze, a sealed surgical dressing.

He returns to stand close behind Dean, just at the edge of his brother’s peripheral vision. “Am I enough for you, Dean?” His voice is low, but firm.

Dean nods. “You’re enough, Sam.”

“Really?” Sam grabs Dean’s flannel shirt and pulls it off his shoulders and down, further pinioning his arms. He picks up Dean’s knife and moves in front of his brother, eyeing the t-shirt Dean wears under the flannel. “Glad that’s not a favorite,” he murmurs. He deftly cuts the shirt open from neck to hem.

Dean sucks in a breath. His eyes lock with Sam’s, pupils wide and dark in the dim lighting. He shivers a little. “Like what you see?

“Did I ask you to speak?”

Dean’s jaw works as he swallows. Sam can see the struggle to hold his tongue. He waits quietly.

“No, Sir.”

“You _won’t_ speak unless I ask a direct question, or I give you permission.”

Dean subtly adjusts his stance, shifting into an approximation of military parade rest. He lifts his chin gaze fixed straight ahead. It’s a habit born of long practice and repetitive drills with their father in years gone by.

Sam smiles. He leans in and whispers. “Good boy.” He brushes his lips against Dean’s ear. Stepping back, he unbuckles Dean’s belt and makes short order of getting Dean out of his jeans and shorts. He steps back to admire his handiwork. Dean is half naked, his breath comes light and quick between parted lips, his chest rising with each inhale. He keeps his gaze carefully schooled straight ahead, but his posture betrays the alert tension in his body. Sam lets his eyes track downwards. Dean’s cock stands half erect, a bead of precome glistening at the tip. Sam swallows, licks his lips, feels his own dick stir in response to the sight.

Dean shivers in the cool air:

Sam lifts his gaze to Dean’s face. “Too cold?”

“I’m fine, Sir.”

“You tell me if you're getting chilled, hear?”

“Yes sir.”

Sam steps in close and cups Dean’s cock and balls in one hand, weighing them. He leans in, his mouth millimeters from Dean’s lips. “I want you hard,” he whispers.”

Dean groans, pushing into Sam’s hand, craving firmer touch. He whimpers when Sam brings their mouths together and tries to recapture Sam’s mouth when he pulls away all too soon. His cock hardens in Sam’s hand.

Sam steps away so suddenly that the movement almost throws Dean off balance. He unties the rope from the chair and jerks Dean forward, pushing him onto the table. Den’s cheek meets the wooden surface, his eyes inches from their carved initials.

“See that, Dean? You wanted to leave our mark? I’m gonna leave a mark, too.” Sam kicks Dean’s legs further apart and brings the flat of his hand down once, twice, in quick succession on Dean’s bare ass.

“Fuck!” Dean’s voice is a pained grunt.

“Quiet!” Sam deals another hard slap. He lifts the knife from the table, turning it so that the blade flashes in the light. “You keep your head down, and your mouth shut,” Sam growls.

Dean nods, bites down on his lip. His eyes follow the blade.

Sam watches Dean for a moment, notes the flushed cheeks, the slightly glazed expression and his fevered breathing. The smell of dean’s arousal hangs in the air. Sam heaves a breath, noticing for the first time how hard he is in his jeans. He leans forward, presses a hand into the small of Dean’s back. “You want me to mark you?”

Dean groans. “Yes…please, Sam. Do it.”

Sam swallows hard. He turns the knife over in his hand watching the light flash and play along the razor-sharp blade. He hadn’t expected Dean to practically beg for Sam to cut him. Sam would never dream of hurting his brother. He might joke about it, sometimes. They both do. It's never serious though. He shifts his gaze to Dean’s back, the golden tanned skin. There are scars already. Old hunting injuries long healed over. There’s the place where Dean got slammed though a wall by a ghoul that Sam had stitched up for him. It’s shaped faintly like the letter M, with the fan work of Sam’s rough sutures around the outline.

Dean has gone very still and quiet. His breathing evened out. He’s alert, eyes open, tense and waiting for Sam to make a decision. He parts his lips, breathes out one word. “Yours.”

Sam opens his eyes, squares his shoulders. He forgets to chide Dean for speaking out of turn. Sam leans over Dean, his hand still pressing down on the small of his brother's back, partly to hold Dean still, partly to steady his own trembling.

“I... Dean, I...” Sam grits his teeth as he presses the blade against the skin on Dean's left shoulder. “This is not where I thought this was going. Sam presses harder with the knife and blood wells slick and bright, gliding across Dean’s skin, tracing join the dots patterns between the scattering of freckles.

Dean whimpers. A shudder runs through him, but he stays where he is, giving himself over to Sam completely.

Sam steels his nerve and carves a small S into Dean's skin. He picks up the gauze pad and applies pressure to the wound, holding it there while he murmurs words of comfort to Dean. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears splash onto the back of his hand.

“I love you. I love you, Dean.” His voice is rough with emotion as he continues. “It doesn't matter if anyone remembers us in a hundred years. That's not what's important. We... _are_. We live, we breathe, we hunt. We save people. But it's not even that, Dean. It's... It's _us_.” Sam kisses Dean’s shoulder and lifts the gauze, checking that the bleeding has stopped before he applies a dressing. He helps Dean to his feet. “Are you okay? Are you cold?”

Dean meets Sam’s eyes, pulls Sam into his arms. “Let me rest here just for a minute. Love you.”

Sam pulls Dean close and wraps him up in a hug. “I'm here. I got you.”


End file.
